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Marianne Faithfull famously sung that at the age of thirty-seven, Lucy Jordan realised she'd never ride through Paris in a sports car, with the warm wind in her hair.  It’s taken me a lot longer, being more than twice that age, but I’m on the same page.  I used to care a bit, but I don’t give a rat’s arse anymore (No offence intended Esra).

When you think about it, we are all so insignificant in the whole scheme of things, any achievement, no matter how great and earth-shattering it may seem at the time, is illusory.  You only have to ponder that it takes 200,000 years for light from a distant star travelling at the speed of light, which is about 300,000 kilometres per second, to cross our galaxy, and there are as many galaxies in the universe as there are grains of sand on all the beaches in the world.  The magnitude of it all is too large to grasp.


Those who strutted their stuff on the world’s stage such as Napoleon, Hitler, Stalin and Mao, are now mouldering bones or dust, and of use only to watch on Netflix waiting for the footy to start. 

To quote the Bard:

Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything– “As You Like It”, Act II, Scene VII.


When you think about it, all of the destruction and countless loss of lives caused by those four now counts for nothing in today’s world.  The world has moved on, and we now have Macron, Merkel, Putin and Xi in their places.  I suppose that what matters - if anything - is how we are remembered. 

Very few, if any, school children could even tell you who Napoleon, Hitler, Stalin and Mao were.  History is no longer taught, as it reflects on the days of dominance of the white race and is considered racist.  A few whites may find their places in history books, if such things will continue to exist, which is doubtful, as anyone trying to purchase any modern objective history text can confirm.  Most will be forgotten.


Christopher Columbus statue torn down

Anyway, the only slim hope that one has of being remembered is to be really evil. 

In the words of the Bard:

The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones -“Julius Caesar”, Act III, Scene II.

Shakespeare was correct from the time of writing up until recently, when teaching of history was thrown out the window and replaced with the Dark Emu type bullshit.


  Even one of the most evil bastards who ever lived, King Leopold II of Belgium (1835 – 1909) will not be remembered.  He established the Congo Free State in Africa as his private domain for killing elephants for ivory and using the native populace for the growing and collection of rubber.  Any man, woman or child not reaching their quota. of rubber were liable to be tortured or have their hands amputated, and many suffered loss of hands, including children.

  He was directly responsible for millions of deaths, and until recently had a range of hills, the King Leopold Ranges named after him in Western Australia, now known as the Wunaamin Miliwundi Ranges.


It is only a matter of time until the names of white notables perpetuated in such names as Adelaide, Brisbane, Melbourne, Sydney, Port Phillip, Victoria, Queensland, Tasmania, Hobart, Darwin and Kosciuszko will be all replaced with similarly grotesque names. Ayers Rock has already suffered that fate

Sadly, even the great doers of good will not be remembered.  Two who come to mind are Florence Nightingale and Father Damien of Molakai.

Florence Nightingale known as The Lady with the Lamp,was a British nurse and intellectual who organised nursing relief in the Russian claimed Crimea for those British soldiers wounded during the Crimean War against Russia. She would visit the wounded in their beds at night, holding a dim lamp to enable her to navigate the darkness.



Britain’s allies were France, the Ottoman Empire and Sardinia.

Father Damien (Jozef De Veuster) who like the evil Leopold was a Belgian, was a Catholic missionary to Hawaii in the 1860s.  At that time Hawaii was inflicted with the scourge of leprosy with no known cure. Like all other fatal epidemics, it is thought to have originated in China. The King of Hawaii confined all lepers to the island of Molakai. 

Damien volunteered to minister to them in the filthy and disastrous conditions in which they were living, and built churches, orphanages, roads and hospitals and other necessary facilities, thereby bringing order and some relief to their tortured lives.  After 16 years of such intermingling with the lepers, he caught the disease and died at the age of 49. He continued the ministry until his death.

 Even those of us who are well-remembered will be forgotten in a few generations, as once fine graves, now overgrown and neglected in most cemeteries, will testify. 

It is uncommon to see any grave attended which is more than two generations old, no matter how grand it once was. One only has to walk through Waverley Cemetery in Sydney. It is a sobering experience.



The upshot of this is that on analysis, any achievement is purely ephemeral and soon to be forgotten, particularly when we reflect that we are about three-quarters water. 

One can fairly ask what right has a walking blob of water to be vainglorious?

Having convinced myself of the accuracy of my late-in-life philosophy, I find it easy not to regret all that I have failed to achieve or possess. I have surpassed my seven acts and have every right to be proud to still be here waiting for the final act.


Still, a little voice keeps telling me that it would have been nice to have made the cover of RollingStone, or at least to have played Mr Darcy in Pride and Prejudice.

I could have and I might still do it. I might even drive through Paris in a sports car with the wind blowing in my hair, if I still had some. 

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